Baited Breath
by ladylemonade4ever
Summary: Every night the monster comes, and how do the residents of the mead hall cope? They get ready for bed as they usually do...


_A/N: I had to do an assignment for my English class which involved writing a paper, and there was the option of doing a creative writing piece from the point of view of someone from Beowulf who is not Beowulf or Grendel. I started thinking about how if I lived in the mead hall how traumatizing it would be for me to have to go to sleep every night knowing a monster was going to come knocking on the door, wanting dinner. Talk about needing to invest in some psychological help!_

_But this was written a while ago so some constructive criticism is always appreciated._

Baited Breath

My handmaiden is silent as she prepares me for bed, except for the sound of her breath escaping in strangled gasps. From my view of her in my somewhat cloudy mirror, a gift from my lord, tears steadily stream from eyes that dart around the room in fear, as if any moment _it_ will come. Her trembling fingers fumble as they work through the braid in my hair, occasionally clenching it tight as she painfully chokes back a sob.

I struggle to keep my own face impassive, which proves impossible as some of my hair gives way in her fist, to which she starts to babble in apology. I cannot bear it, I snap, more from built-up anxiety than any real anger on my part, and she hurriedly bows out of the chamber, dismissed. I almost smile as I hear her frantic footsteps down the hall, no doubt leading her away to some place of safety for the night, hidden deep within the mead hall.

I start to laugh, then, catching my distorted features in the black obsidian, finally noticing what I have not seen for the past years that I have owned it. I look older. Dark shadows line my tight face, closed off expression. I cannot remember the last time I have smiled; perhaps when my daughter, fair Freawaru, was born. Yes, I cannot remember feeling such joy in years, for a daughter can be married out, she can escape this hall of death. My sons, beloved sons, shall die here no doubt, defending Heorot and its people from _it_, prolonging the inevitable… I should weep from dwelling on the thought any longer.

A draft blows in the chamber, and I shiver in cold. A knock startles me from retrieving my robe, it's the guard, impatient to escort me to my lord's chamber. I swallow, closing my eyes and attempting to summon my strength. Another night, a possible tomorrow. My lord awaits me, and my hearts lifts a little. At least I shall not be alone.

Our footsteps echo loudly throughout Heorot, and I keep my eyes downcast as the guard holds his torch high, causing sinister shadows to surround us. This journey to my lord's chamber is always the worst part of the night. What if _it _comes early? And I am not yet in his chamber, his arms soothing my fears, my arms soothing his? These frightening thoughts do bring tears to my eyes, and I cannot contain a small sniff. The guard stops, holds his bright torch above my lowered head, as I clasp a hand to my mouth. I close my eyes, _I will not cry, I will not cry._

"My lady?" he offers hesitantly. I manage to look up; face dry, mouth turned up into a shy smile.

"Thank you for your concern, but I'm quite alright," I whisper. The darkness swallows any loud noise from either of us, his face softens I imagine, as he quickly turns away to continue on. We reach the chamber door, and he nods to his comrades, who have sentry duty. I give an encouraging murmur as I enter the chamber, these men may give their lives tonight.

He looks up expectantly from the bed as I quietly close the door. I stand there for a moment and we just stare, my lord and I, and the same virginal flush that assails me every night we share a bedchamber creeps back into my pale cheeks. A ghost of a smile flashes across his face, and I crawl into bed, burrowing close to his rough body that envelops me tight.

I was afraid of him once, but he is vulnerable just as I am, pretending to be strong for his people. When my brother gave me to him in marriage, as a sign of peace between the _Helmings, _my people, and the _Scyldings_, his people; I was afraid, I did not know what sort of man he was. His initial appearance did little to dispel my fear, as he was obviously many years older with his hoary beard, and I had just entered into maidenhood. Yet when the ceremony started, my eyes captured something gentle in his expression, and I was soothed. I knew that I would not mind being married to him, to running his mead hall, keeping peace in his heart.

As we lay in bed together, our hearts beat as one, panic sets in our breasts, will remain until that first sound in the silence, the first inclination that _it _is coming. I cannot help but feel bitterness trickle into my heart for a moment, if my brother had married me somewhere else, I would not have to suffer this every night. My lord clutches me tighter then, and the feeling fades. He looks at me, his haunted eyes piercing, desperation laced in his expression. He wishes that I wasn't here, in danger, but he cannot help but need me, for if he was alone he would die. His gaze holds apology, and I cannot do anything else but forgive him. And so, I settle as comfortably as I can in the given circumstances,

and wait with baited breath.


End file.
